


Ad Astra Per Alia Porci

by Jay_eagle



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Caring Douglas, Frottage, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sick Martin, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 18:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10599915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay_eagle/pseuds/Jay_eagle
Summary: Rimedio's winning bid for the FTH auction - their prompt was "A first time Marlas story with misunderstandings/light angst and a happy ending. Set at some point when MJN is still MJN and Martin is still the captain."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rimedio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimedio/gifts).



> Beautiful art commissioned from me as an extra gift to rimedio for their generous bid is by the superlative hollyashes (whose excellent blog is at hollyashes.tumblr.com.)

There really was nowhere like a remote and deserted airfield, Douglas thought, for making one appreciate just how big the universe was. He was lounging on the dusty aircraft steps, partly because he and Martin had been waiting for the cargo for four hours now, but mostly as a silent jibe at Martin who refused to do the same – instead pacing the tarmac in a manner reminiscent of a caged tiger Douglas had taken Emily to see at the zoo.

 

Douglas abandoned his gazing at the huge African sky stretching cloudlessly above the two of them to observe, “Wearing a path in the apron won’t make the cargo turn up any faster, you know.”

 

Martin paused to glare at him before resuming his pacing. “How can they be so ridiculously late?” he fumed.

 

Douglas shrugged, turning the movement into an expansive stretch sideways, rolling his achy shoulders. “Four hours isn’t late, for Africa,” he pointed out. “I once waited in Nairobi for 18 hours for a shipment. When it finally turned up, it was treated as perfectly normal timekeeping.” He paused, but Martin didn’t. “Whilst Nosy Be island may not even be the mainland of Madagascar, let alone part of continental Africa itself, I’d bet your enormous hat that the local inhabitants have a similar attitude to keeping appointments.”

 

Martin sighed and finally came to a halt, thrusting his hands into his armpits as if he were chilly, though the late afternoon sun was still heating the air around them into a shimmering haze. “It’s so inefficient,” he grumbled, the glancing sunlight casting the side of his face Douglas could make out into shadow. “I mean, it’s pork, the cargo, isn’t it? Surely they can’t just leave that all sitting out somewhere in the heat, not if it’s going to be edible…”

 

“Come and sit down.” Douglas patted the step next to him. “You’re making _me_ worn out, ploughing up and down like that.” Martin didn’t move, and Douglas ignored the way his heart sank just slightly. It wasn’t wrong to want Martin to rest, it wasn’t – it certainly hadn’t been that he’d wanted to feel Martin’s arm pressed to his again, as it had been in the packed taxi-brousse they’d had to take from their grubby hotel back to the airfield that lunchtime.

 

“I don’t want to sit in the dust.”

 

It was Douglas’ turn to roll his eyes. “I’m sure the pork chops we’re shortly to load won’t care one iota if their plane’s captain has a few specks of Madagascan earth on his trousers when they arrive.”

 

“That’s not the point!” Martin turned, and Douglas could see the beads of perspiration gleaming on his reddened forehead. Martin shook his head, crossly. “A professional pilot should always be –“

 

“Professional?” Douglas asked, wryly, but it seemed Martin had broken off for reasons other than an inability to come up with an apposite adjective. Douglas turned to look towards the sound of a large vehicle, quickly spotting the wheezing, ancient Bedford lorry coughing its way onto the apron. “Think it’s for us?”

 

Martin looked hopeful, just for a moment, but then his face fell. “It can’t be,” he replied. “That’s a livestock truck. Must be for somewhere else.”

 

The truck didn’t waver though, continuing towards them, towards GERTI… And she was the only plane parked in this corner of the quiet aerodrome.

 

Douglas’ brow had also furrowed and he stood up, the better to examine the lorry. Now the truck was getting closer, even over the noise of the cranky engine he could plainly hear noises that were distinctly… porcine in nature.

 

Martin’s shoulders sagged. “Douglas,” he said, apparently trying to select his words very carefully, in the manner of one receiving bad news but not yet willing to accept it. “Do they sound like… pigs, to you?”

 

Douglas’ nose was now assailed by the lorry’s aroma – and mixed in with the engine oil there was a distinct stench of… “Pig shit,” he muttered.

 

“The same to you!” Martin snapped, but Douglas placed a hand on his arm.

 

“No, I meant – it smells like… pig shit.”

 

Martin sniffed the air delicately, and by the way he immediately wrinkled the dozens of freckles closer to each other on his nose told Douglas he definitely agreed.

 

Douglas fished his phone out of his pocket and began to dial, even as the lorry driver jumped down from his cab and Martin reluctantly paced over to deal with him. “Carolyn,” Douglas barked as she picked up, thousands of miles away in Fitton. “Just how _fresh_ was this pork supposed to be?”

 

* * *

 

“Ugh, what a _day_.” Douglas collapsed onto the creaky single bed in their shared room in their latest tiny town – this time back on the Madagascan mainland - hearing Martin dump his case at the foot of his own ancient mattress.

 

“How can you lie down?” Martin sounded unusually peevish; then again, the kind of day they’d had would have been enough to try a saint’s nerves, Douglas mused, and Martin – for all his many good points – was far from a saint.

 

Douglas cracked an incredulous eye open. “How can you _not_ be lying down? I’m exhausted.”

 

“And covered in… pig, if your uniform’s anything like mine.” Martin made a moue of disgust, lifting his jacket sleeve to sniff at it before recoiling in dismay.

 

Douglas smirked. “If you’ll remember, I managed to largely avoid being roped into the… herding process.”

 

“I don’t know how.” Martin shrugged his jacket and shirt off almost as one, chucking them at a chair as though it had personally offended him. “The farmhand was shouting at everyone to get involved – especially when that one sow broke out of the hold.”

 

“Ah, but you forget my ability to assume the role of commander of any crisis. From a carefully detached –“

 

“Distance, yes, I remember now.” Martin kicked his trousers off, and Douglas swallowed the rest of his sentence. “Shame Arthur wasn’t with us… he’d have loved it.”

 

Douglas snorted. “I think he’d’ve been more a hindrance than a help.” He yawned so widely his jaw cracked.

 

Martin yawned in sympathy. “Mind if I’m first in the shower?”

 

Douglas closed his eyes again. “Help yourself. I don’t see myself moving until I’ve had a doze, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Douglas awoke an indeterminate number of hours later to find the room pitch black. He wriggled his toes experimentally and sighed to discover he was still wearing his socks (and thus, the rest of his grubby uniform). No matter what he’d gloated to Martin, he was less than fragrant thanks to the heat of the airfield, the travel on the taxi-brousse to and from the hotels… and alright, the pig shit that had inevitably found its way onto him as he’d ‘supervised’ the cleaning of GERTI’s hold once they’d landed at Toliara airport. He even wondered for a moment if it had been the smell that had woken him up, until another unexpected moan issued from the bed that Douglas remembered was five feet to his left, and Douglas knew that a previous and similar noise had been the thing that roused him. _Martin_.

 

Douglas put the groaning down to Martin having a nightmare, at first; he just hoped for his captain’s sake that it didn’t involve pigs. Levering himself upright as quietly as he could, he began to strip, hurriedly peeling down to just his boxers. He was wondering whether he could manage to find his wash bag in the dark, and if so whether he could manage to shower without waking Martin, when he heard Martin whimper again, this time sounding horribly pained.

 

Now Douglas thought about it, the sound of Martin’s breathing wasn’t quite right; over five years’ working together and (too often) sharing hotel rooms had naturally taught Douglas how his colleague usually sounded in sleep – and this wasn’t as normal. Martin’s breaths were harsh, almost panting, and there was a wheezy quality to the noise that made Douglas decide that finding the light switch was a sensible next step.

 

He fumbled in the darkness, swearing softly as he stubbed his toe on the bedstead, before locating the old-fashioned nub protruding by the door. He flicked it; the bulb above them grudgingly blinked into life, bathing the room in a watery yellow glow.

 

Martin was tangled in his bed sheets; his pyjama top rucked around him as though he’d been grappling with it. His hair was plastered damply to his forehead, and his face was white underneath the sun-inspired freckles that just two days in Africa had brought about – except for a hectic flush over his cheekbone that made Douglas grimace.

 

Martin slowly blinked awake as the overhead bulb began to find some conviction in its purpose, the brightening light rousing him from his doze. “Douglas?” he croaked.

 

Douglas strode over, realising belatedly that he was only clad in his boxers. “You seemed to be having a bad dream,” he commented, his palm itching to see whether Martin had a temperature. “Are you feeling all right?”

 

“’Time is it?”

 

Douglas realised he didn’t know. He poked the phone on Martin’s nightstand. “11pm.”

 

“Ugh.” Martin tugged his pyjama top down, and Douglas realised with a trickle of embarrassment that his eyes had been drawn to Martin’s bare stomach without meaning to look. “I don’t feel good.”

 

“What’s the matter?” Douglas did reach out, then, and placed his hand to Martin’s forehead, feeling the warmth there. Martin flinched and Douglas withdrew. “I’m just checking –“

 

“Head hurts,” Martin rasped. “Achy all over.”

 

“From more than chasing Babe around the airfield earlier?”

 

Martin just shrugged, listlessly. “Perhaps I didn’t drink enough.”

 

Douglas retreated to his side of the room, pulling on the mercifully clean pair of trousers that he’d packed. He shrugged a vest on too, and swiped his room key from the table. “I’ll see if reception – such as it is – sells water.”

 

“But…” Martin looked bewildered. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m an idiot for getting dehydrated? Make a joke about me taking ‘dry up, Martin’ too literally, or something?”

 

“No!” Douglas was stung. “Not when you’re running a temperature.”

 

“I’m not, I’m freezing.” Martin shivered suddenly, a ripple running through his prone figure that Douglas could see from all the way across the room. “Don’t need to go out, the bathroom’s right there.”

 

“You can’t drink the water from the tap!” Douglas glared. “Wait… have you, already?”

 

“No.” Martin raised his hand to shield his eyes from the light bulb. “I brushed my teeth, but I didn’t swallow anything.”

 

“Stay there.” Douglas pulled the door closed behind him before Martin could protest anymore.

 

It took him far longer than he’d planned – the lodgings Carolyn had provided for them were in an incredibly sleepy township well outside the larger settlement of Toliara, and the hotel owner was not best pleased at being rousted from her own room. “Don’t you have night staff?” Douglas asked her crossly, before remembering from their experience checking in that her English was basic at best. “L’eau?” he tried, instead. “Est-ce que je peux acheter de l’eau?”

 

The woman gave him the kind of stare that a basilisk would have been proud to produce. “Non. Le robinet ne marche-t-il pas?”

 

“We can’t drink the tap water –“ Douglas gave up. His sixth form French wasn’t equal to a debate about the dubious merits of Madagascan water treatment plants. “Y-a-t-il un magasin près d’ici?” He suddenly realised the time. “Qui sera ouvert?”

 

She shook her head. “Pas ce soir. Ni demain.”

 

“No shops tomorrow, either?!”

 

“Sunday.”

 

Douglas groaned. _Bloody ex-French colonies and their inherited attitudes to the Sabbath…_ He tried again. “Mon collègue… il est malade. Il a besoin d’eau.”

 

“Sick?” She looked marginally less frigid. “Attendez. Deux secondes.”

 

Douglas waited as she disappeared into the room behind the reception counter, before re-emerging clutching a one-litre bottle of water. She held it out to him. “Merci,” Douglas said, but just got a yawn in return. “Combien?”

 

She flapped a hand at him. “Gratuit.”

 

“Free? Thanks.” Douglas felt marginally less aggrieved, but as she turned to go, his flair for contingency planning prodded him. “Madame – si nous aurions besoin d’un… docteur? No, no…” he cudgelled his brains for the right word. “Un médecin!” he produced triumphantly. “Ou serait le médecin?” Lord only knew what tense he’d just produced, but she seemed to get the idea.

 

“Pas de médecin, pas ce weekend. Il faudrait appeler à l’hôpital, à Toliara.”

 

 _No doctors?_ “Great.” Douglas’ shoulders slumped. Hopefully Martin would be better just for some water and a sleep. He really didn’t fancy tangling with the healthcare system in this part of the world.

 

He trudged back to the room, across the courtyard, and softly opened the door. “Martin?”

 

“Here.” Martin’s voice was a parched whisper, and Douglas hastened to give him the bottle he’d sourced.

 

“Have you taken anything?”

 

“Paracetamol.” Martin swallowed the water gratefully, but winced as it hit his throat.

 

Douglas turned to ferret in his own bag, finding what he was looking for after a few false starts. “Here you are.” He held out the foil packet. “Ibuprofen. Get those down you.”

 

Martin hesitated, but as Douglas rolled his eyes and made to pop the tablets out himself, he complied. “I’ll be fine,” he grimaced.

 

“You’re sure?” Douglas couldn’t shake off the nagging worry. Since parenting Emily, he’d acquired basic nursing skills to add to his aborted medical degree – and Martin looked as if the smallest breath of wind might lift him airborne at the best of times, let alone when he was sickening for something.

 

“Just want to sleep.” Martin rolled over, turning his back to Douglas and huddling into the wall, visibly quivering due to his fever.

 

Douglas bit his lip, but if Martin could sleep Douglas knew it might help. “Will I disturb you if I shower?”

 

He took Martin’s silence as a lack of objection, in the end, and by the time he emerged then Martin was on his back, elbow thrown half-over his flushed face and snoring fitfully.

 

* * *

 

Douglas’ night was interrupted just 3 hours later, Martin awakening him again – this time crying out. At first Douglas couldn’t place where he was, his eyes searching sightlessly in the dark of the room for any clue, but gradually awareness returned and he was on his feet without even thinking about it. He nearly fell headlong over his cabin case in groping his way around for the light switch, but righted himself just in time.

 

When he flipped the light on, his heart sank. The rustling noise that he could hear was Martin thrashing again with the bedclothes, and his face was damp with sweat. “Martin?” Douglas tried, but his only response was a string of muttered babble that Douglas couldn’t hear well enough to understand.

 

Douglas made his way to the bathroom, not bothering to turn off the light. He couldn’t find a flannel (not a hope in such a basic establishment as this one), but made do with Martin’s hand towel, running it under the tap before wringing it out.

 

He picked his way back into the room, stepping around Martin’s scattered unpacking. That, in itself, should have told Douglas that something was wrong; he’d never known Martin to be anything other than anally orderly about his possessions on a trip. He frowned.

 

The light hadn’t woken Martin, this time – Douglas knelt gingerly down beside him, ignoring his knees clicking in protest. “Martin,” he said softly. There was no reply. Douglas sighed, and gently touched the back of his hand to Martin’s forehead again.

 

To his intense concern, despite the medication, Martin’s temperature seemed to have increased rather than dropping. Martin stirred under Douglas’ hand, whimpering a little. “Wh-?”

 

“Only me.” Douglas folded the towel into a small bundle and made a compress for Martin’s head. “You’re burning up.”

 

“Where’s GERTI?” Martin’s eyes were skittering around the room, skimming over Douglas, over the furniture, not seeming to comprehend what was going on.

 

“At the airfield.” Douglas eyed him, worry nibbling sharply. “Don’t you remember?”

 

“Douglas should have locked her up.” Martin stirred more convulsively. “I didn’t – don’t have the keys.” The compress threatened to slip off, and Douglas caught it reflexively. “We _have_ to lock her up, Arthur. Douglas. Where’s Douglas-?”

 

“Martin, look at me.” Douglas caught a flailing wrist, trying to stop Martin struggling. “It _is_ Douglas. I mean – I’m him. It’s Douglas. See?”

 

Martin stared at him, and a sudden, hazy awareness seemed to dawn. “D’glas?”

 

“Right here.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“You have a temperature.” Douglas pushed the blanket off Martin, ignoring his grunted complaint. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Shaky. Sick. I –“ Martin suddenly went green, and Douglas only barely had time to grab for the metal bin by the bedside table before Martin threw up. Martin retched and heaved, Douglas gingerly patting his shoulder. He wasn’t really sure what boundaries applied, here.

 

After Martin had finally finished vomiting, he rolled back, panting. Douglas tried to ignore the sight and smell, and hastened to the bathroom to deal with it.

 

“I’m – oh God, I’m so, so, so –“ Martin’s weak voice only barely reached Douglas’ ears over the sound of the running water.

 

“Don’t you apologise.” Douglas reappeared, replacing the bin in easy reach, just in case. “Not your fault.”

 

Martin closed his eyes. He was shivering again, Douglas noted, and when Martin reached for the coverlet Douglas let him pull it halfway back over his sweat-damp pyjamas. “How’s the head?” he asked.

 

“Throbbing.” Martin’s throat sounded raw. “Everything hurts.”

 

He was such a picture of misery that Douglas couldn’t find any kind of a joke to make – a first where Martin was concerned. “Want me to get help?” He ignored the creeping unease that he wasn’t certain exactly how to get to a doctor at this hour, in this remote and rural a location.

 

“No, don’t fuss.” Martin was slurring just slightly. His gaze unfocused, and he stared at a point just over Douglas’ shoulder. “Pigs,” he said.

 

“What?” Douglas blinked, uncomprehending.

 

Martin’s face seemed full of fear, suddenly. “Pigs – look out – Christ – corner them, you have to corner them, they’re escaping.” He trailed off, his eyes sliding shut, but continued to mumble something Douglas couldn’t catch under his breath. His arms flew up, raised as if to fend of the porcine hordes, and Douglas’ alarm shot into the stratosphere.

 

“Martin?” Martin didn’t acknowledge him. “Martin, it’s OK, we’ve left the pigs behind, now…”

 

Martin’s eyes cracked open. “They’re coming.” The words were slurred, but filled with a grim foreboding that unconsciously echoed Douglas’ own anxiety.

 

“You’re alright,” he said, fruitlessly. “Let me get that.” He replaced the damp cloth on Martin’s head, then reconsidered and wielded it in more active fashion, sponging away the beads of sweat dotting Martin’s face and neck. Martin shuddered and tried to push the compress away, cringing from the cold, but his arms were as weak as wet cardboard, and Douglas pressed on. “Shh, shh. I know,” Douglas muttered, not really thinking about what he was saying, but Martin seemed to calm just fractionally at the sound of his words.

 

Douglas mopped Martin’s forehead, his face and upper arms, ignoring Martin shuddering away. He tried to talk to him, but Martin wasn’t making any sense – babbling about pigs, and the plane, with Douglas’ name thrown in at random intervals – a reaction to his voice, Douglas supposed. He thought about reaching for his phone, calling Carolyn, but really, what could she do, so many miles away?

 

The cloth was drying out, the heat from Martin’s body evaporating the water almost as quickly as Douglas could sponge it onto him. He went to the bathroom and re-dampened it, mind churning over how to get Martin a doctor – at this time of night, this far from civilisation…

 

“Douglas…” Martin seemed to have noticed his absence.

 

“I’m here.” He hastened back to the bed.

 

“Never notices me.” Martin’s words were more distinct than they had been for long minutes.

 

“I’m here, you’re ok…” Douglas raised the compress, preparing to set to work again – but Martin’s next sentence pinned him immobile.

 

“I love him.”

 

Douglas’ brain revved furiously. “What?” he croaked.

 

Martin opened his eyes, something desperate glowing in them, but though he stared at Douglas he didn’t seem to see him. “Don’t tell him,” Martin pleaded. “I do, Douglas, I love Douglas… And he – he’d never care. Think I was stupid…” His eyes slid shut again, and his voice tailed off into more of the incomprehensible mumbling that made Douglas worry so.

 

Slowly, Douglas replaced the cloth on Martin’s forehead and just watched him for several dragging moments. He should ignore what Martin had blurted out. He wasn’t himself.

 

He should ignore it.

 

* * *

 

By the next morning, Douglas was utterly exhausted. Martin had fallen into a restless doze as dawn began to filter into the room, and his babbling had stopped, though not before circling back around to the subject of a supposed attraction to Douglas another three or four times. Douglas had forced more ibuprofen into him and retreated to his own bed, sleepless in the face of the delirious revelation and anxiety over what to do.

 

 _How could Martin have known?_ Douglas had so carefully hidden how he felt, he thought, for the past eight months – as soon as he realised he’d had feelings for Martin, that was. The trouble was that the realisation had come upon him so gradually that at first he’d pooh-poohed it to himself. He had almost convinced himself that his own willingness to take on more paperwork was to occupy his brain, not to allow Martin to go home early and rest his tired eyes; that his desire to make Martin laugh was just another small victory won, not the hope that Martin would pay him attention; that finding ways to sneak more food onto Martin’s plate on layovers was a simple sop to his stressed finances, not a chance to stop his captain’s stomach rumbling audibly on flights… but it was all useless. Douglas had had to give up the morning that Martin finally and genuinely beat him at a four-day word game, and Douglas hadn’t even minded – he’d just filled with warm longing at the sight of Martin’s delight.

 

Douglas had gone home that night, and sworn to himself that he’d never let on – that he’d never allow Martin to suspect what Douglas had let himself feel.

 

He must have failed, somehow. For Martin to be hallucinating a love for Douglas, all mixed up in his terrors about pigs and GERTI and rent payments – well, he must consider such a situation an equal nightmare.

 

Douglas scrubbed his baggy eyes with a groan. He was exhausted, and his weary heart had sunk to the depths of despair.

 

* * *

 

Douglas woke with a start to the sound of Martin snoring. From the angle of the sun glancing shallowly through their shutters, he realised that it must be mid-afternoon at least – he’d slept through the day. Lurching out of bed, the noise of his feet hitting the floor appeared to wake Martin, who rolled over and groaned.

 

“Martin?”

 

“Mmm?” Martin didn’t open his eyes at first, but as Douglas crossed the room and anxiously felt his forehead he flinched away, eyes shooting open in clear surprise. “What?”

 

“Hold still.” Douglas pressed his hand to Martin’s forehead again, unable to quite believe how cool it was now, in comparison to just 12 hours before. Slowly, he drew back. “How are you feeling?”

 

Martin frowned and rolled his neck experimentally. “Like I’ve been asleep for about a century.”

 

“You just woke up?”

 

“Yes – what time is it?” Martin screwed his eyes closed again as Douglas shoved aside the shutters to allow a flood of light into the stuffy room.

 

Douglas ignored the question. “How’s your head?”

 

“Achy, but… I’m fine.” Martin reached for the bottle on the bedside table, but it was practically empty. He’d apparently managed to drink during the day, then, Douglas realised, and for the first time in hours his worry waned slightly.

 

“More ibuprofen for you.” Douglas pushed the packet towards Martin, then retreated to sit awkwardly on his bed, ignoring the urgent prompting of his bladder.

 

“Thanks.” Martin swallowed the pills down with the last trickle of water, wincing, but then his already puzzled expression became one of blank bewilderment. “Wait – _more_ ibuprofen?”

 

Douglas blinked. “Yes. That’s your fourth dose.”

 

Martin gawped at him. “It can’t be.”

 

“You don’t remember?” Douglas couldn’t believe it. “You kept me up all night, gibbering…” A cold hand clutched his heart, and he shoved all his emotions back underwater. “Gibbering rubbish,” he snapped, more abruptly than he’d meant to.

 

Martin passed a hand across his forehead – a hand that trembled slightly, Douglas noticed. Clearly Martin was still not quite right. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking in Douglas’ expression – which must have looked cold and forbidding, Douglas reflected – too late.

 

“It’s fine.” Douglas stood so sharply he made Martin jump. “Let me get dressed and I’ll go and buy more water. And food.”

 

“I’m not hungry…”

 

“You should eat.” Douglas didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from being brusque. The tiny sliver of hope regarding Martin’s confession that he’d apparently nurtured through the worry had evaporated, leaving him terse and snappish.

 

“I don’t want…” Martin quailed at Douglas’ glare. “Fine,” he agreed, quietly.

 

Douglas hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t find any words – nothing to explain the anguished turmoil of the past 24 hours. All he could do was nod, and leave the room.

 

* * *

 

The flight home the next day was torture. Douglas’ intense and unwarranted awkwardness mingled with guilt and anger about his feelings for Martin – which he didn’t seem to be able to squash, no matter how much he told himself he was being ridiculous. For his part, Martin was so silent that Douglas would have thought he was sulking if they’d actually fought; instead they’d just skirted talking since the pair of them had awoken the previous afternoon, Douglas lying awake long into the night again, unable to find sleep. Everything was hideously strained, and Douglas didn’t know if it was because Martin secretly _could_ remember what he’d blurted out while delirious and regretted it, or because he still felt unwell – a possibility that filled Douglas with dread. In his logical brain he could see that Martin had probably just succumbed to a severe attack of heatstroke, but the fretting, anxious part of him kept muttering about mysterious tropical diseases that flared up and down as they or the fates wished. Martin hadn’t seen a doctor, after all; what if Douglas had done entirely the wrong thing by not fetching one for him, that horrible night? His brain churned endlessly, and he didn’t notice the surreptitious nervous glances that Martin occasionally cast his way throughout their journey.

 

At long, long last, Fitton hove into view, and Douglas piloted them down, speaking only when technically necessary. He rolled GERTI onto her stand, scribbled the bare minimum of paperwork, and strode off to the portacabin before Martin could follow. It was only when he got halfway that he realised that Martin might need a hand – he’d looked just a touch unsteady still, climbing the steps that morning – but as Douglas turned, reflexively reaching out an arm, Martin pushed past him, face determinedly not looking Douglas’ way. Douglas tightened his jaw and followed – the only small relief he could find being the absence of Carolyn’s car. The Knapp-Shappeys must have already gone home for the evening.

 

By the time Douglas trudged into the office, Martin had already finished depositing his paperwork. He looked up as if to say something, but at Douglas’ frown he looked hastily away again. There was a long pause, while they both hesitated, all-too-consciously not meeting each others’ eyes, before Martin sighed and kicked at the desk. “Right,” he muttered, “I’ll head home then.”

 

“Via the doctor.” Douglas knew how to make his voice insistent, and Martin jumped at being addressed.

 

“Oh, come on.” Martin shrugged. “I feel fine, now.”

 

All of Douglas’ balled-up frustration, his pent-up worry, suddenly burst the dam of self-control. “Fine?” he growled, low, furious. “ _Fine?_ ”

 

Martin took an involuntary step back, bumping his hip against the desk. “What?”

 

“Martin –“ Douglas didn’t know what he was doing, was crowding Martin backwards. “You don’t have any idea? How much you frightened me?” This was insane, these were things Douglas had sworn not to say, but they were pouring out of him nonetheless. “You were delirious – crazed with fever for a whole night, babbling _nonsense_ , and I didn’t manage to get a doctor – couldn’t help – and now you just want to disappear off home without checking you aren’t about to relapse?”

 

Martin flinched nervously. He was gripping the desk with both hands, leaning away from Douglas, his hat knocked slightly askew. “R-relapse?” he stammered, face whiter than it had been all day.

 

“ _Yes._ ” Douglas tried to master himself, managing to step back a half-pace. “If it’s some sort of tropical bug you’ve caught – malaria, something like that – it could come back – and it’s the summer vacation, you’re alone in that attic of yours –“ He pushed a sweaty palm over his forehead, feeling his heart racing. “What if you get ill again?”

 

“Douglas, please.” Martin put out a tentative hand, gripped Douglas’ arm, but through his jacket Douglas couldn’t feel the warmth of it. “I really do feel better. No temperature, not anymore – feel.” He tugged Douglas’ arm, drew his fingers to his forehead.

 

Douglas felt the coolness there, but couldn’t look away from Martin’s gaze. “You weren’t there,” he said, weakly, knowing he should remove his hand, yet failing so to do. “Well – you were, but your mind wasn’t. You don’t know – don’t remember – the things you _said_ , they were insane, you were mad –“

 

Martin’s eyes were suddenly closed, the start of an ugly blush staining his cheeks. “No, well – I’m sure you’ll store them up, just to tease me with,” he bit out, and tried to step round Douglas.

 

Douglas blocked him with a well-placed shoulder. “Of _course_ not,” he snapped, stung. There was a heavy pause between them, and Douglas felt the iron teeth of final despair biting into his soul. “I’ll never mention it again, then. Any of it.”

 

“Fine.” Martin brought an angry hand down on the desk. He tugged his hat from his head, turning it between his fingers. “What – what did I say?”

 

He had asked so softly, Douglas wasn’t sure he’d heard it. “What?”

 

“Go on then.” Martin seemed to screw up his courage. “What was I saying, to get you all upset?”

 

“Just – just babble.” Douglas tried to backpedal, but the genie was refusing to go back into the bottle. “It was mad things – about GERTI, about pigs –“

 

“Oh – right –“

 

“About how you loved me –“

 

Silence spun, breathless, between them.

 

Douglas was on the verge of turning away – he hadn’t meant to let that detail slip free, but frustrated longing and bitterness had prodded it forth – when he suddenly clocked the expression on Martin’s face. It wasn’t incredulity, wasn’t hilarity. It was fear.

 

Douglas inhaled, feeling the metal chill of despair inside recede, just slightly. Not enough to quite give him the courage he needed, but still –

 

“Ridiculous. Like I said,” he murmured, but watched Martin’s face with the same rapt attention he’d given to his first flying lesson.

 

Martin brayed a laugh, the edge of hysteria in it shrill. “I _must_ have been delirious, then,” he quavered, and Douglas knew the words for a lie.

 

Dizzy hope rushed up through Douglas, crazy longing battling with caution for dominance. He took a step closer again, and Martin couldn’t retreat for the solid desk blocking his way. He didn’t seem to want to, though.

 

“You’re sure?” Douglas said, softly. “Sure your temperature’s gone?” He lifted his hand to Martin’s forehead again, seeing Martin swallow hard as skin met skin.

 

“Positive. I feel – I feel fine –“

 

Douglas slid his hand down Martin’s face, until there was surely no way Martin could mistake the caress. He cupped Martin’s cheek, pulse galloping like GERTI’s engines brought up to full throttle. “I don’t. Feel fine,” Douglas said jerkily.

 

“You – “ Martin shivered, but it wasn’t the fever now. “You aren’t fine?” He didn’t really seem to know what he was asking.

 

“No.” Douglas paused to consider his next words carefully. “Because I think we might be lying to each other. About something incredibly important.”

 

Martin didn’t reply, apparently struck dumb – either by Douglas’ words or by the thumb gently smoothing along his jawbone.

 

Douglas leant just a fraction closer. “Because I’m attracted to you. I have been for ages… And I wonder – just wonder – if knowing that might make you have another think about whether you want to reassess your evaluation of your delirious confession as ‘ridiculous’?”

 

Martin’s tongue peeked out, ran over his lips nervously, and Douglas watched it, hypnotised. “You’re joking?” he said, and Douglas nearly startled backwards until he realised that it was a question.

 

“I’m not joking. I wouldn’t. Not ever, not about this.” Douglas felt Martin’s tiny gasp against his hand. “Please.”

 

“I do, too – I’m – I like – lo-… like – I mean…”

 

The words were so quiet that Douglas nearly failed to hear them, but the light of hope abruptly kindled in Martin’s eyes told him what he needed to know. Told him everything, all of it – almost too much.

 

He didn’t have time to take stock of it all, though, before his body acted for him, leaning down to crush Martin to him in a desperate embrace. He pressed his lips to Martin’s ear, the corner of his jaw, his cheek – and then they found each other, and Martin’s mouth was moving on his at _last_.

 

It wasn’t perfect – rhythm eluded them, sacrificed on the altar of initial desperation – but the feel of Martin pressed tight to his chest was enough to make Douglas feel as if he might evaporate in pure ecstasy. “Martin, oh, _Martin_ –“ he muttered, brokenly, as Martin’s hands flirted with his shirt, slender fingers finding the skin of his chest between the buttons. Douglas’ hands were in Martin’s hair, and in a single moment of clear thought he wondered what on earth Martin had done with his hat.

 

The kiss broke, both of them breathing harshly. Neither of them seemed to want to move apart, though; Douglas still cradling Martin’s head, Martin still palms-splayed on Douglas’ chest. Douglas bent his head, more slowly this time, and Martin leant up to meet him in a soft, sweet kiss.

 

 

“I can’t believe…” Martin’s words were almost inaudible. He nipped at Douglas’ jaw as his thumbs found Douglas’ nipples to rub.

 

“Are you sure…” Douglas inhaled at the slight pinch of Martin’s fingers on his sensitive chest. He valiantly refocused his brain. “Are you sure you feel alright?”

 

“I’m fine, I keep telling you,” Martin protested. As if to prove it, he slid his hands to Douglas’ waist, aligning them more closely, and Douglas shuddered at the feel of narrow hips meeting his broader width. Martin was hard, he realised, and with a blink of half-amazement, half-inevitability, he noted that so was he.

 

“And you really – really want…” Douglas wasn’t a man given to hesitation. But Martin’s all-too-recent instability of mind made him pause, still not sure how to proceed.

 

Martin’s stroking, smoothing hands halted; a sudden tension bloomed in him that Douglas couldn’t understand until Martin stuttered, “ _I_ do – but if you don’t, if this is you feeling sorry for me –“

 

“No!” Douglas clutched Martin fiercely to him, trapping the heat between them before it could evaporate. “I want you, desperately,” he confessed, and felt Martin sag in relief. “I just feel as if you deserve better.”

 

Martin looked up, then, confusion evident. “Better?” he queried, his hands sliding further southwards in the confined space to tease at Douglas’ waistband.

 

“Better than – than a quick shag in an office.” Douglas tried desperately to ignore the weight of his erection pressing uncomfortably in his boxers. “I should wine you, dine you – treat you like –“

 

Martin’s eyes creased, but this time with laughter, not anxiety. “Like a princess?” he teased, and his groping downwards became more purposeful.

 

Douglas moaned. A wilful and determined Martin was entirely too much for his self-control. He kissed Martin again instead, using his tongue to tease past Martin’s teeth, trying to regain a semblance of control. The shift in mood between their horrible taciturnity for 24 hours to this sudden, passionate outpouring was so abrupt, he felt as if he’d got whiplash. He fought for composure and only half-succeeded. “I will treat you properly,” Douglas vowed, when he had to break for breath. The spectre of his three ex-wives loomed tauntingly for a moment, and he bit his lip.

 

“I know you will,” Martin whispered, and he undid Douglas’ fly. “But for today – for now –“ he reached inwards, closing his palm around Douglas’ erection for the first time. “For now, please – please treat me _improperly_.”

 

Douglas’ exhale was a release of all the pent-up passion he’d too long contained. “Your wish,” he growled, and made Martin squeak as he spun him around to pin him against the wall. He pressed into him, rolled his hips, trousers slipping ludicrously downwards where Martin had undone them.

 

“Yes,” he heard Martin hiss, felt the grope of Martin’s hands tugging at his arse, sealing them together more tightly.

 

Douglas bent his knees, praying they wouldn’t audibly click, trying to align them more perfectly. Martin’s face was so close to his own that it blurred: sunburn and freckles merging in a rosy blush, blue eyes hooded as Martin tipped his head back against the wall in pleasure. Martin’s hands guided their tempo, and Douglas’ only hope was that the portacabin wasn’t so flimsily constructed that it would actually shake with the rhythm of their thrusts together – even if they were making dust descend from the ceiling, coating them in the finest frosting of white and grey streaks.

 

“Wait – just a second.” Martin paused momentarily to reach between them, shoving incautiously at the fabric that was getting in the way. Underwear and trousers descended into a mad tangle, but that was alright, Douglas thought, that didn’t matter, because Martin’s hands were back on his arse now, finding the bare skin hiding beneath dangling shirttails to re-establish the friction, the closeness.

 

“You’re so hot,” Douglas muttered, meaning it literally – the warmth of Martin’s lower half against him was a shock – and only realised the double meaning when he felt Martin snort into his neck. Douglas rolled his eyes, and wriggled to punish Martin. “You know – what I mean,” he panted.

 

“I do.” Martin licked the line of Douglas’ jaw, the coolness contrasting beautifully with the warm breath that followed. “You’re – um – hot too.”

 

Douglas was nearing the edge; but he hauled himself back a little, wanting to prove that despite their surroundings, he could be a gentleman, could be considerate and patient of his lover’s needs… but it was becoming more difficult by the second not to let his climax slip free. “Are you -?” he asked, weakly, and judged correctly by the way that Martin’s kisses were increasingly frantic and uncoordinated that the answer was probably ‘yes’.

 

Throwing caution to the wind, he licked his palm lavishly and reached between them; held them in a firm grip. Together they thrust, and panted, and kissed, and –

 

“ _Fuck_.” Martin would have fallen, Douglas thought, were he not pressing him so solidly against the wall. He felt Martin going to pieces, felt the hot spurts soaking through his shirt, sliding down his hand, and the sensations – the sound of Martin cursing his pleasure into Douglas’ ear through hectic breaths heaved erratically – whited Douglas’ brain into the perfect, blissful haze of euphoric orgasm.

 

He bit down as he climaxed, Martin’s shoulder saved only by the pad in his jacket, and when Douglas finally came to it was to find Martin supporting him, now, where they swayed unsteadily together. “Shh,” Martin was whispering, “shh.”

 

Douglas puzzled as to why, then wondered whence the strange whimpers he could hear were emanating. They sounded exhausted, wrung out, and with a sudden shock of cold horror he realised the noises were coming from him. He tried to jump backwards, to master himself, but Martin was holding him too tightly to permit him to flee.

 

“Don’t.” Martin sounded steady now, self-assured – the opposite of the fearful confessor he’d seemed just twenty minutes prior. “It’s fine, Douglas.”

 

“Sorry,” Douglas gritted out, humiliation soaking through him like cold water into kitchen roll. “I don’t know what –“

 

“I do.” Martin relaxed his clutch slightly, but his hands were rubbing soothing, kind circles into Douglas’ back – soft caresses that felt too lovely to pull away from. “I’m sorry for scaring you. On the trip. All the way home I thought you were angry, for having to look after me… I d-didn’t realise that it was that you were actually _worried_ for me.” He paused, but seemed to summon the courage to continue. “And I’m sorry if I ever had the chance to tell you that – that I cared, and I… didn’t. Before.” His eyes were almost free of flickering doubt, now; Douglas reached to trace a smudge of white dust at Martin’s cheekbone, and Martin sighed in clear contentment. “I expect I buggered it up lots of times, before – I wanted to say, but it felt so – so _ludicrous_ – to think that you could ever…”

 

“I do, though.” Douglas found his voice again. “And you’re not the only one to have failed to speak up.” With a reluctant shiver, he stepped away a half-pace, groping for the tissues that Martin mercifully kept on his desk at all times. Handing a couple to Martin, he carried on. “At last year’s Christmas party… that time in Rotterdam when you won that word game… Just two days ago, in the taxi-brousse, when you were pressed so close to me, to name just a few instances.” He mopped at himself, grimacing slightly at the mess he was in. “When you were pacing the apron on that island, not yet knowing what our cargo was about to be…”

 

To Douglas’ relief, Martin smiled. “All of those, for me, too.” He chucked his soiled Kleenex into the bin, and set to rearranging his trousers, tucking in his shirt. “Even when the sodding pigs were galloping everywhere, and you were standing back, ‘directing operations’.” His shy smile became a grin. “Even then.”

 

“Goodness.” Douglas straightened his own attire, though judging by the dust coating Martin from head to foot, he’d still look a sight. “It must be love, in that case,” he joked.

 

To his surprise, Martin didn’t laugh, or look away. “I… rather think it might be.” He blinked, clearly shocked at himself for confessing as much. “This has never happened to me, before,” he muttered, and Douglas’ heart soared skywards.

 

“It only took a truckload of pigs.”

 

“If only we’d known sooner.” The note of regret in Martin’s voice was plain.

 

“Hey.” Douglas tugged him into a hug. “We know now. And it’s quite appropriate.”

 

“What is?”

 

“You.” Douglas kissed the top of Martin’s head. “Only falling in love when pigs fly.” He ignored Martin’s snort of derision, and the shove to his side. “Makes me feel special.”

 

“You are,” Douglas heard Martin whisper reflexively, but so faintly he didn’t acknowledge it.

 

“Come on, then.” Douglas shook his hair, releasing a fresh cloud of portacabin ceiling dust that made them both cough a little. “Dinner?”

 

“Please.” Martin took his hand.

 

“ _After_ we’ve taken you to the doctor, of course.”

 

With a groan, Martin gave in.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on the title: this fic was inspired by discovering that John Steinbeck’s own personal logo was a small, winged pig (http://www.sjsu.edu/steinbeck/biography/biography_pigasus/) – the result of a schoolteacher telling him that he’d be an author only when pigs could fly. Above this logo, which he called ‘Pigasus’, he would write the words ‘ad astra per alia porci’ (to the stars on the wings of a pig’) which I felt would make an interesting beginning to a Marlas romance – with two such earthbound-but-aspiring characters… and so the story sprang into my head. I really hope you like it - if you do, feel free to come say hi on Tumblr too, where my blog can be found at jay-eagle.tumblr.com.


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